Barbara McCauley - Killian's Passion

He leaned close, and she felt his warm breath fan over her cheek. “Call me ‘sweetheart’, and I’ll leave.”

He was playing a game with her, Cara knew that. And as much as she wanted to kill him for it, she also found it exciting, like nothing she’d ever experienced before. She stood naked in the shower, with only a thin, plastic shower curtain and towel separating her from this stranger, a man she’d never laid eyes on until a few hours ago. Her heart pounded furiously; she could barely catch her breath. Her wet skin felt hot and tight.

“Sweetheart,” she whispered, still refusing to break contact with his eyes.

Immediately she wanted to snatch the single word back. The amusement she’d seen in his eyes only moments ago darkened to something else entirely. Something dangerous and primitive. It felt as if the tiny room were closing in on them. Steam swirled around their bodies like a wispy veil of desire. He still held her hair between his fingers, and she felt connected to him through the wet strands. When he brushed his knuckles over her collarbone, she shivered.

“Tell me how you got out of those ropes,” he said softly.

She kept her eyes steady, in spite of the fear slithering up her spine. “Are you going to tie me up again?”

He smiled slowly. “Not unless you ask me to.”

Frowning, she lifted her chin at him. “Don’t flatter yourself…I was the Houdini act in my neighborhood amateur talent show when I was growing up. My record for escape was two minutes, twenty-seven seconds. I won three years running. Now will you please get out of my bathroom?”

He hesitated, then released her hair and stepped away. “You’ve got five minutes. If you haven’t come out, I’ll be back.”

The breath she’d been holding slowly escaped when he closed the door behind him. She stared for several long seconds.

Five minutes.

His ultimatum seeped into her numb brain, and she sprang into action, not even bothering to dry her still-damp skin before she dragged on a pair of blue jeans and a white button-up shirt. She yanked the towel from her hair and tugged a comb through the tangled mess, thankful that she’d used’ conditioner. She could escape rope knots any day, but the knots in her hair were something else all together.

Blast the man for catching her off guard like that!

Hands on his hips, Ian paced the small living room. He had no idea exactly what had just taken place in the bathroom, but he knew he didn’t like it one little bit. He’d intended to rattle the woman, but all he’d ended up doing was rattling himself. He’d been messing with her when he told her to call him sweetheart, but when she had, and her voice had sounded so breathless, all he’d wanted to do was kiss her. And when her eyes got all soft and dewy when he’d touched her hair, Lord help him, he nearly had.

Damn if he still didn’t want to kiss her.

But he also wanted to throttle her. Not only because she’d been lying to him and spying on him, but because she was so casual about it. She could at least have the decency to appear just a little afraid. A strange man standing in her bathroom while she’s taking a shower and she didn’t even scream or cry.

Not that he’d actually seen anything. He’d only been there a moment before he handed her the towel, and she’d been behind the shower curtain the entire time. For all he knew, she had a gun back there, and if he’d tried anything, she would have blown his head off.

No, he didn’t think she had a gun, nor did he think she intended to kill him. She’d been watching him, that was all he knew. And he intended to find out why.

Right about—he glanced at his watch, followed the second hand as it swept up to the twelve—now.

He was turning toward the bathroom when she came out, dressed in jeans and a white, untucked, buttoned shirt rolled to her elbows. She’d combed her hair away from her face and the wet ends lay heavy on her shoulders and down her back. Her skin was flushed from her shower, her cheeks rosy and green eyes bright.

She brought the fresh, clean smell of wet raspberries with her from the shower. It filled the room, made him want to breathe deeper and drag the scent fully into his senses. Still not completely recovered from touching her in the bathroom, he decided it would be best to keep his distance.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Mr. Shawnessy.” She tossed him a smile. “People are going to talk.”

“Thanks to you, they already are.” He ignored the drops of water sliding down her neck into the vee of her shirt and kept his gaze carefully locked with hers. “Nick’s a regular Gertrude Gossip.”

“I didn’t think it would benefit either one of us for me to drag him into our—” she hesitated “—situation.”

“Tell me, Miss Sinclair, what exactly is our situation? ”

“That’s what we’re going to talk about.” She padded toward the kitchen in her bare feet. “But I’m starving and we have to eat first. Are you hungry?”

Incredulous, Ian watched her walk away. Cara Sinclair was one cool woman. In spite of himself, she fascinated him. And anyway, he thought, turning on his heels to follow her, he was hungry. He’d left Tanner’s before ordering food, and he hadn’t eaten anything since the ham sandwich he’d made around noon, exactly eight hours ago.

But even if he had eaten, the smells emanating from the kitchen were so incredibly mouthwatering, he would have been tempted, anyway. His stomach grumbled as he drew in a lungful of the delicious aroma.

Cara stood at the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand, stirring a large pot. The back of her shirt was wet from her hair, nearly making the fabric see-through, and he realized she wasn’t wearing a bra. The woman was as mouthwatering as the smell of food and equally tempting, he thought reluctantly, which triggered another response from his body, lower than his stomach.

Annoyed at his unwanted reaction to her, he looked away and noticed she’d set the small kitchen table for two. He glanced back sharply at her. “Expecting company?”

“I knew you’d be here sooner or later,” she said with a shrug. “I hate to eat alone.”

He didn’t. In fact, he preferred it. He’d had a couple of steady relationships over the years, but his job kept him away for long periods of time, and even the most patient woman had her limits. He’d gotten used to living alone. It was easier—fewer complications.

But this woman was intent on playing out this little scenario her way, so he sat. For now he’d let her have her way. Short of violence—which he still hadn’t ruled out—it seemed to be the quickest way to find out what he wanted to know. And if what she was cooking tasted half as good as it smelled, the wait just might be worth it.

She set two bowls of steaming chili on the table. “Dig in.”

He hesitated. “How do I know it’s not laced with arsenic?”

She smiled. “You don’t.”

He decided she didn’t look like a murderer and scooped up a big bite. It was all he could do not to moan with pleasure as the spicy concoction rolled over his tongue.

He suddenly felt ravenous.

He was on his second bite when she moved back to the stove and, using a kitchen towel as a hot pad, pulled a tray of corn muffins from the oven. Plucking them carefully into a small wicker basket, she then scooped another bowl of chili and set everything on the table.

“Good?” She sat beside him.

He shrugged. “It’s all right.”

Scooting her chair in closer, she grinned at him. “It’s better than all right, Flash. I didn’t win the Bloomfield AllCounty Chili Bake-off two years running for nothing. Consider yourself lucky.”

He reached for a muffin. “I’ve been spied on, had my vacation interrupted, bruised and nearly lost the ability to ever have children. Of all the things I consider myself, Miss Sinclair—” he broke open the muffin and slathered it with butter “—lucky is not one of them.”